


In Nomine Patris

by justmariamay



Series: Kyrie Eleison [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel War, Big Brother Lucifer, Big Brother Michael, Character Study, Creation, Demons, Fallen Angels, Family Feels, Fatherhood, Gen, God's A+ Parenting, Heaven's Civil War, Loyalty, Memory Loss, Pre-Fall, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azazel was a good angel, a good son, a good brother. He became a good father too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like Wings of Butterfly

Young Azazel is curiously examining a butterfly that casually landed on his finger. He could see all the secrets of creation written on its wings, without secrets. Or so he thinks being a youngest angel at the moment. What he could never understand is why Father is hiding from them. For some reason Azazel is certain He has nothing to be ashamed for. He created all this beauty. Created them. And song of the Creation is the most precious sound. So why is that? Only their five eldest siblings were allowed near him.

Once Azazel asked Samael what Father looked like and got another cryptic answer. Samael was probably just teasing him. When he asked Gabriel, his merry brother exclaimed 'Dad's Dad!' and nothing more. When he asked Isaiah, he said Father was everything and beyond words. Raphael in his turn took time to describe what it's like to be in his presence, but Azazel got so lost in his brother's voice he understood very little. He's never thought about asking Michael, until now. Weird, because Michael is the eldest. He was here since who knows when.

Butterfly's wings flutter and raise its owner from angel's finger. Suddenly Azazel realizes that this butterfly will be dead before the day is over. And it confuses young angel. Such a sad joke of the Maker. Why would such exquisite pattern would be given only for a day? This little insect is not a nothing, so far from it. And yet... she and nothing are connected in some strange way. As if it's...

The trail of his thoughts is interrupted by the sound laugh. Meters away Gadreel is talking to Camael and Gabriel, occasionally glancing at Michael who is standing by the river alone. Sometimes Azazel thinks that nobody looks at Michael as often as Gadreel does, because really, it's hard to look at him. Too much blaze, too little colors. Only Michael's eyes have a living shade of green, anything else is black and white without a shade of gray. And black and white... they are not even colors, more like absence of it. He stands out, but can be invisible as well. Doubtfully Azazel starts approaching Michael. But when he's close enough Tiriel jumps out of nowhere and pushes him into Michael. Both fall into cold water. Gabriel burst out laughing (Azazel suspects he's the one who talked playful seraph into this) along with others, lioness looks very smug and content with her childish deed. Azazel laughs too, he's still a child himself after all. Michael laughs quietly and shakes his head looking at Tiriel who's now parading proudly along the river bank like 'Look, who's beaten the big brother? Me!'.

Azazel only now notices he's been clinging to Michael and immediately let's go of him.

"Sorry," he says still smiling.

"Don't be."

Michael steps out of the water first and once again Azazel wonders how he carries those huge wings of his. Tiriel is jumping around Michael enthusiastically until she changes into her angel form (with two legs, two arms and six wings) and innocently looks up at the archangel. She is beautiful. Her colors are fiery red and orange, her skin is golden and her eyes have a shade of bronze.

Michael doesn't say anything as usual, when someone pranks him. Gabriel says it's because Michael is stupid and doesn't know what to say. But Azazel can see from where he stands, that he just doesn't need words. He seems inexpressive for the most part, for black and white part. But words are not Michael's element. Yet they are exactly what Azazel is going to ask from him.

Tiriel stands on her toes and kisses Michael's nose, giggles and dances away not forgetting to wave to Azazel and send him a kiss too. That's his big sister, who is more childish than him. Embarrassed he stares down. Flocks of little fishes float around his legs. Alga tickles his feet. He leaves water a bit reluctantly.

He feels like a wet sparrow when he shakes the water off his four night-blue wings. But he's content to hear Gabriel grumble when the water drops reach him.

Azazel turns to Michael who watches him expectantly. His brother knows there is something on his mind.

"Michael, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Azazel," replies Michael.

"But, can we... umm..." Azazel is uncomfortable knowing their brothers might hear and tease him.

And Michael understands, without words he offers Azazel his hand and young angel takes it. Michael brings them to unfinished pert of garden, mostly empty save for some grass and flowers.

Azazel is unsure.

"I wanted to know about Father."

"What about Him?"

"You see him often, don't you? What are His colors?" blurts Azazel. He meant to ask differently, but question comes out clumsily.

Michael seems lost for a moment before he replies:

"I'm afraid you asked the wrong brother. I... I am bad at distinguishing colors."

"What do you mean?" Azazel is confused because he watched Michael making those patterns on those butterfly wings. From what nature he drew them? And if... if he doesn't see colors, how could he made that?

"My perception differs from yours, little brother. When I was... created, the brightest color in whole Universe was black," Michael says it in a strange way, like it was bad, but he misses it.

"Is that why you look like this?"

"I believe so," agrees Michael.

"Then it's also Father's colors? Black and white?"

"They were. Now... thanks to him the world is full of colors you love so much."

"I love colors. I love ice blue points of Isaiah's wings, love Zachariah's silver hair and Ariel's willow-brown eyelashes, love ocean green-blue shade of Raphael's grace and Gabriel's ember irises, I love how red are Sion's lips are or how Gadreel and Camael seem to exchange colors... but, I love them not for their colors," Azazel hopes Michael understands what he's saying.

"You are good brother, Azazel. And you are good son to Him. Never doubt that. Never doubt."

Is that what means to be a good son? To never doubt?

"Show me again, the fire," asks Azazel to distract himself from things he can't understand yet. He likes to watch it.

Michael looks at him and raises his palm up. At first it bursts out, then Michael restrains it. It's blue and yellow and red and Azazel is captivated by the transition of these bright colors in the shadow of his brother's wings. He could watch forever the way this little flame tries to touch the sky, wanting to be bigger. But then a butterfly appeared in his sight. It dances around the fire hypnotizing young angel with shapes every move of its wings give to the transparent air. Azazel holds his breath afraid to disturb any part of this act before him. When butterfly practically lunges towards the fire Michael starts closing his palm, but obeying to his sudden wish Azazel forces his hand to stay open, to let fire burn, ignoring how mercilessly flame burns his skin. And butterfly finally makes it. It's different from the way it lands on the flower craving for sweet nectar. Somehow the craving for this fire flower is much greater. And Azazel watches. He marvels at those tiny painted scales turning into nothing, at the way this little perfection gives itself to the burning petals. It's over. Too soon. And yet it's how it should be. He doesn't feel bad about butterfly. What's the point, if it would be dead soon anyway? These creatures born and die every day, their cycle is so short, it's hard for Azazel to even imagine it. Or does a day seem like eternity to a butterfly?

Michael closes his palm and sits down on his knees, in this position his head reaches only Azazel's chin. Azazel's hands are burnt to black, they don't even hurt anymore. Michael blows on them and Azazel hisses as his flesh returns to its normal state. Michael doesn't let go of his hands, squeezes them carefully and says quietly:

"I hope you won't do this again."

"I won't. I'll be good," Azazel promises.

And Michael smiles.

"She wanted to burn, didn't she?" asks Azazel.

Michael nods. And Azazel is glad. It means he hasn't done anything wrong. He feels a little guilty about making Michael hurt him, but... but Michael doesn't seem mad. He never does. Still, Azazel owes him some sort of apology, so he frees his hands from his brother's hold and hugs the archangel. It's better than words, to Michael for sure.

Michael is warm, hot even. But Azazel doesn't care. A strange thought crosses his mind. Does Michael want to burn too? Azazel thinks it would be even more beautiful. But no, he doesn't want to lose his brother. Though, he wouldn't mind to watch this world sink in flames. How pretty it would shiver and squirm before it fades out completely. Maybe this is it. A purpose. Maybe Father is building this world to see it burn when it becomes perfect. Like wings of butterfly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got from sweet to disturbing really fast, didn't it?  
> 


	2. Falling Skies

Azazel couldn't bring himself on his knees when he heard Father's voice. He just couldn't. Numbly he watched Michael sinking down and bowing his head in silence, then Gabriel, then Raphael, then others... Some stood in doubt before following the elder's example. Azazel couldn't, but he wasn't alone. Far from it, really. Still, it felt strange disobeying Father. Azazel was a good son, he always listened. Except this time. He couldn't move even a finger, he wasn't able to follow the order.

After this everyone carries on, but some unspoken tension takes a firm grip on Azazel's throat. Everyone is carefully silent, songs have become quieter. But he can hardly mind how tightly Raphael squeezes his hand when Azazel reaches for him in these times. And they... He told Raphael something he shouldn't have. Nothing was wrong about it. And yet everything was. He said it with such faith, it... scared him. But what has shaken him the most, it's that Raphael answered him in equal fashion. It made him happy, so happy, but now anxiety is crushing his ribs in merciless hold. It's not like he renounced his loyalty to Father, or is it? He disobeyed Him once and now this? What happens next?

Azazel isn't stupid. He can smell the storm coming. It's all there, in Isaiah's cold eyes, in Samael's cryptic smile, in guarded fold of Zachriel's wings, in Daniel's restless chatter. The problem is he can't predict what form this storm will take. They all wait for something. None of them asks Father's forgiveness yet. And he is sure that none of them has any intention to do so. Azazel promises Isaiah that he will stay with him, when they are tested again.  
He finds himself in front of that old tree in the middle of the Garden. Michael said that tree had been here since before everything. The bark was black and cold as stone. Azazel thought this tree was long dead until the green came out of nowhere not so long ago. Now it's covered with fruits too. It doesn't look too different from other trees.

Azazel reaches for ripe fruit and picks it. It's comes off the brunch almost too easily. The peel under his fingers is smooth on one side and rough on the other. But rough side feels warmer, maybe because it was turned to the sun.

Taken over by new emotion without a name Azazel crushes the globe with his fingers. Peel bursts and pulp with countless tiny seeds spills all over his hand. It's cold and slimy and transparent. Azazel breaths in sweet odor, but this sweetness is sickly. Intoxicating scent of decay. He smears the substance on his lips before shaking it off his skin.

Azazel can't say what does it taste like, it's strangely pleasant but he spits anyway. Suddenly grass flashes like steel. Only for a moment, but Azazel can't get this change of colors out of his head. He stares on his palm with barely visible sticky traces of juice.  
A tentative brush of another angel's grace snaps him out. He accepts the company gladly, and as openly as he is capable of at the moment.

"What's on your mind, brother?"

Question hangs in the air, because Azazel doesn't know what it is. And it irritates him. But Gadreel's presence has always been somewhat grounding. But Azazel doesn't miss some sharpened edges in Gadreel's grace.

"I could ask you the same question."

This question can be applied to any of them. And none would answer as it seems. Because Gadreel just smiles and shakes his head.

"He is angry with me, isn't he? With us..." Azazel says after glancing up to higher heavens.

Strong warm hand on his shoulder. Such earnest gesture. Azazel wants to cry.

"Father always forgives."

Yes, and it's the only truth that should matter. But...

"I must ask for forgiveness first and I... I can't do that, brother. Even knowing what I've done wrong, I don't find it in myself to regret it."

His brother's eyes widen in disbelief. Azazel shrugs and even laughs, but it has no mirth to it.

"I don't know what to say, Azazel," genuine confusion paints Gadreel's face. "But I'm not judging," of course he isn't. They spent another hour in front of this ugly tree in silence.

But judgment eventually comes. And Azazel isn't ready to face it, isn't ready to taste Father's wrath. Father is shouting. At Adam and Eve, at Gadreel and Camael, at Isaiah and Samael, at Michael... Azazel can't stand it, he covers his ears, but that voice resounds inside his head. He waits, when his name will be spoken as well. Yes, there it is... among the others.

Daniel is crying as he rushes to his side. But Azazel cannot console his little brother, nor he can protect him. He doubts he'll be able to protect himself. Not against this, whatever it is. Sudden heat under his feet turns his eyes down to Eden. From fourth Heaven he watches green crowns turn into torches one by one and somehow they make the daylight dimmer. Clang-clang, clang-clang, metallic sound somewhere behind the voices.

His brothers and sisters are screaming in horror, begging Father to stop this. And somebody is laughing, laughing so genuinely among this madness. And Azazel has a feeling this somebody is laughing at him. Abruptly he turns around and pushes Daniel behind him. He doesn't know this angel. It has to be an angel, but... Everything is wrong about him: wings so violently red, halo or whatever it was is torn to shreds, ugly scars cover his body, all his being emanates pain, madness and... something that makes Azazel want to burn alive in that fire beneath. And yet the stranger seems happy.

"Who are you?" angel asks too quietly, barely audible in rising chaos.

"A guest," sharp teeth are showing in cruel grin.

Guest... Azazel has no idea how to welcome him. Daniel is trembling behind him, clutching at his feathers. He feels his brother's fear, mindless, but not unreasonable. He fights his own. He has to do something, he must. What's the pointing in waiting Isaiah's or Michael's victory, which will decide his fate.

No. He is a part of this. Three big eagles pierce the space from upper heights like a comet. Now Michael and Lucifer are not only one fighting. Afar there is Gabriel's trumpet calls the angels. He can follow this call, he still can redeem himself in Father's eyes... But he doesn't want to. He will follow his brother, who refused to bow. Who disobeyed out of love to their Father.

Staring once again into stranger's eyes Azazel realizes he's been reading him like stars in the clear night sky. So obvious to him Azazel is.

"Are you feeling brave, angel? Or are you just out of your mind?" the 'guest' is amused by his resolve.

"Is there a difference?"

Why does he sound so broken?

"Not for me. Not for you," something cold and solid appears in his hand, handle with rough but sharp blade. "A gift," clarifies 'guest'. "I like reckless angels."

With that he disappears from Azazel's sight, but his presence has become only heavier. Weight of the sword in his hand awakens the knowledge buried deep in his existence. He knows how to use it. It makes him cold inside. Why is this so easy?

"Azazel," Daniels calls him softly. "What is happening?"

Azazel looks at his little brother, whose tears won't seem to dry up. He shouldn't hold it against Daniel. He's just a small child, who learnt to fly not so long ago. Whose Father is angry with him. Whose brothers and sisters fight each other with intent to hurt. Azazel finally knows the word to describe what has started. And he hates to say it out loud.

"It is war, Daniel. War has come to us."

Words are powerful, they have so much behind every sound. Cherub's face darkens with realization as the terrible meaning sinks into his mind.

"Are you with me, Daniel?"

Younger angel whimpers but nods. It goes unspoken which side they are on. It's been already decided. It's hard to say what they are choosing between, but they will stand with Morning Star.

"Find those who with us," he doesn't need to repeat their names. "We are going to fight back," this is not even a choice anymore.

Daniel's light swift wings carry him up. Azazel squeezes the hilt of his weapon until he can't tell where it ends and where his skin starts. One last meaningless prayer passes his lips and he steps off.

Flap of thousands wings fills the air as War enters every beating heart. His breath and whisper seep into every crack of their faith, stuffing the emptiness with purpose. Wrong, but very clear purpose. In this mixture of fear, anger and doubt Azazel follows Isaiah's voice. The only thing he can trust here.

He runs into his young sister. Matariel's violet eyes are cautious and wet and Azazel practically begs her to step away without words. She is unarmed, but her long claws are sharp enough to skin anyone with bare hands, claws that tear thunder clouds apart. She is afraid of him, he feels it. Azazel strikes her in the face with a hilt stunning her, then tears a handful of soft grey feathers.

Someone calls his name. Several voices. Only one he can recognize clearly is Gabriel's. Azazel won't answer. A fleeting thought: what if Raphael called his name too? But it dies as soon as it passes by. He fights. He hurts his family. Unthinkable. Undeniable. Just as the fact that his family tries and sometimes manages to hurt him too.

His eyes are watering from all the smoke coming up. Another sword clashes with his. Camael, beautiful Camael. Even more beautiful with his grace usually so serene ramping like wild wind. But Azazel is not a leaf to be blown away by this gust. It only blows the fire that started inside him. Azazel is all about onslaught but outer feathers of Camael's bright wings protect him against Azazel's strikes like a solid barrier. The only thing that is to Azazel's advantage is that his brother doesn't want to win, he can feel it with every weakening blow of that wind that his brother is.

Azazel disarms Camael with particularly strong swing, but looses his own weapon in the process. He wrestles Camael down brutally, so unlike the way they tussled when they were younger. Camael only pretends to fight back, too tired, too unwilling. Azazel's grace reaches for his blade and call is back in his right hand.

"You see God, don't you, Camael?" Azazel mutters, tracing the blade against his brother's throat. "How does He look right now?"

"Azazel..." Camael tries.

"Is He angry? Is He sad? Or maybe He is content?" Azazel can easily believe this, hearing the cacophony of the voices that all once were in complete harmony. If He can stand this song for so long, then he must like it. He must relish it.

"Not you, Azazel, not you..." Camael begs.

"No, not me," agrees dark winged angel and slashes at his brother's bright rainbow wings, impales them in different sections, so they won't lift him up any time soon.

Camael's shout is drowned in others. Azazel pick's up his brother's flaming sword with left hand as the other writhes in helpless pain. He will be fine, eventually. ...No, he won't be. None of them will.

As if confirming his words a scream of unbearable agony deafens him for a moment and he misses an arrow into his side. Jegudiel. It's his voice. Strange, he has always been one of the quietest...

On his right Virgil is fighting Zakviel, on his left Ariel is shattering Raguel's bones. Daniel's accurate shot saves his lower wing from Sariel's darting spear. Azazel's eyes are glued to the spot where Michael is brought to his knees and hands on the ash covered ground and Lucifer circles him taunting. Then he stops abruptly and heaves his sword. But before he can strike the floor collapses. Isaiah is falling down, Michael is falling up, Isaiah is screaming his name, Michael's grace is tightens all around. Then everything stills. Like the raging storm has been simply sucked into a black hole. Isaiah, their beloved Helel, the brightest in Lord's eyes, has fallen, cast out by brother's hand and Father's wrath.

Some kind of power is pulling Azazel closer to the edge. No, not pulling. Inviting. There is only few steps between him and fallen Morning Star. Fallen? Oh, no. His wings are strong, he will be back here soon. Because otherwise... otherwise the rest of them are doomed to follow.

Only now Azazel realizes that he is in pain. Bleeding side and heavily bruised shoulder. Still, his wings are mostly undamaged, his resolve unshaken. He defeats Rahmiel, Salatiel and Vretiel before Michael appears in the middle of the battle again. At least Azazel notices him only now. From where he is Azazel can see clearly how easily Michael sends Batriel and Gressil into the tear formed in Heaven. Then Michael looks at him, blood streams down from his mouth, his wings are torn to the point he shouldn't be able to fly, shouldn't be able to fight with such elegance. White feathers are painted with red blood and black ash and bones can be seen. His grace that embraced all Seven Heavens doesn't betray any pain or emotion, it just burns at the tips of Azazel feathers warningly. But Azazel is past listening to reason. There can be no reason any longer.

With all strength he's left Azazel flies on Michael. It's a desperate move, Azazel isn't stupid to not recognize that. But someone has to try at least. Michael reflects his attacks, one by one, manages to knock Camael's sword out of his hand, but Azazel's own sinks into his chest to the hilt. Michael drops his blade, his eyes widen, and Azazel lets go off his weapon.

And they stop here in the air above the burning ground. Michael's right hand on Azazel's chest, left hand on his shoulder, Azazel's hands on Michael's slightly shaking wrists. This close Azazel smells fire and pain on his brother. Michael's face is unreadable, but Azazel reads into him anyway. He looks in his eldest brother's eyes and words leave his mouth on their own:

"Why?.. Why you, Michael?"

It seems that Michael understands the nature of the question. He slowly blinks. Michael's left hand is rising, but not to strike or cast a spell. Fingers are put into gesture of blessing as the right hand is pushing into Azazel's chest. And Azazel has nothing to hold onto.

War. Destruction. War. Agony. War. Punishment. War.

Slipping away from Heaven Azazel suddenly realizes: Jegudiel doesn't scream any more. This is all that occupies his mind when he can't force his wings into a flight and gives in to the gravity. War's red crazy laughter is ringing in his ears. And now that's he's sprawled on the snow covered ground down on Earth and blood fills his mouth he finally can tell, what that damned fruit tasted like.


	3. Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hundred of years, right? Not that long, right? God, I feel awful about this.

Samael fell last, thousands years after Azazel. But probably Samael didn't count how long he held his ground up there. And there, time means much less than here. Who knows how long Azazel has been lying on the ground occasionally noticing more "shooting stars". On Earth humanity had to start all over, and yet... they've been tainted with sin and nothing would change it. There should be some satisfaction in this ‑ there is none. Not yet anyway.

Weird. Azazel has never expected to become to love humans so much. It started as curiosity and condescending fondness. Now he loves them with passion, loves that they are as pliant as clay and he can shape them into something time worthy. He teaches them how to be better, how to use what they are given and oh, they're given a lot. And he likes how they are much better at killing each other than he and his siblings ever could be. It's not that hard to make them deny God, to choose Lucifer's side despite being the reason of each other’s fall.

Thing is, nobody sees God here. No one can hear Him. How easily the Almighty can be forgotten. And more often Azazel finds himself not wishing to ever come home. He misses Heavens, yes. But he doesn’t want to come back. He tramples in the bloody mud, the song he sings are in tune with iron and patter of heavy hoofs belonging to swift red horse.    

Lucifer says he’s crazy, with fondness if with a shade of pity, while he heals his wounds. Azazel takes it with laughter, drunk with souls, not even able to feel pain clearly, and kisses his brother’s cold hands. He likes being crazy. Reason doesn’t give any happiness.

“I can’t lose you, Azazel. Please, be careful,” Lucifer is worried, not without a reason. 

Azazel want to tell him he’ll be fine, but he doesn’t want to throw another empty promise. Father seems to be especially unhappy with how Azazel turned out, it almost seems that he is Heaven’s enemy number one, not Helel. Azazel hates himself for what he’s about to say. It’s not impossible to win this war, but in the worst case… or even the best case…

“I’m afraid you have to learn to be lonely, brother. I’m afraid we all have to. All of us would kill for you, not all of us would die for you. But both will be gone one way or another,” this terrible honesty wakes some of his senses. He wants to promise he’ll never leave. But he’s already broken such a promise.

“Shut up,” Lucifer orders. “I don’t want to hear it.”

And Azazel doesn’t mention it again. He just stays close, just offers his brother that little comfort he possesses. Maybe Lucifer doesn’t even need it. But he knows there is no else Lucifer trusts more than him and it fills his heart with pride and joy. Sense of family is gradually replaced by something entirely different. Or better say it’s reformed.

Then a strange thing happened: he made another kind of family. A woman and two children that were not supposed to ever be born. Only Lucifer understood the significance of the name he gave them, that this wasn't just mockery, and Azazel was ready to face his wrath for naming these mistakes like that. But Lucifer forgave him this one whim. One name for two. The boy was called Israfil, the girl - Rafail. He named his dirty progeny after purity itself.

Dirty and monstrous as they may be, they are still just children. Azazel understood why some of his brothers killed their Nephilim or abandoned them at birth. Out of fear. Out of mercy. He couldn’t do the same. Because of their mother. Because of themselves. But did they suffer... Azazel had to witness it all since grace began boiling in their blood. Divinity clashed with mortality in cruel battle and sharp feathers cut through their soft skin. More eyes started to open and see what no child should ever see. Life in nearly constant pain on the brink of insanity, they had to be brave to live it.

What Azazel couldn’t understand is why God hates them so much. They are infertile, they are not able to supersede His precious humanity. But it’s only a question of time when Heavens decide to get rid of them. But they have been trying to get rid of Azazel for ages without success. It means he can protect them until they are strong enough to protect themselves. Should he? Perhaps it’s better to let them die? Perhaps. But there is not a trace of such thoughts when Rafail squeezes his fingers and looks at him with her big wonderful eyes.

“You won’t let them hurt us, father,” she says.

It’s not a question, not a plea, she says it without fear or doubt as if she knows for sure. Her confidence grounds Azazel. He finds himself smiling happily.

“Take your brother and go play hide-and-seek.” It had to be the first game he taught them, other more fun games came later.

His daughter nods and moments later she’s nowhere to be seen. Good.

“Dad really hates you,” Gressil comments the familiar sound of angelic trumpet above. Him and several others are preparing for the another of many battles. They don’t approve the existence of his children, but they respect him. Even love him, enough to not leave him to face the wrath of God alone.

“Does it look like I care?” Dad may hate him, but somehow Azazel is sure He can’t bring himself to hate Lucifer.

“That’s exactly your problem,” his younger brother laughs, turning a silvery sword in his hand, still doubting it’ll work like Azazel said it would.

Gabriel is glorious, truly. He has that easy kind of cruelty in him, which Azazel possesses as well. That’s why he manages to see through archangel’s little but efficient tricks. Also, his weapon works: one good stab is enough to break apart whatever links that hold grace together.

Soon Gabriel is outnumbered. He lost this battle. Azazel kicks Mastema’s empty vessel to his feet.

“Father won’t forgive you, Azazel,” Gabriel says quietly, as if he’s sorry for him, as if he still could forgive him. To that Azazel smiles. He just can’t help it.  

“You are so funny, Gabriel,” he replies. “Do you wish to try your luck?” Azazel invites to continue the fight, just between two of them.

Short tug of lips in acceptance of Azazel’s victory, one last mournful glance at their dead brothers and Gabriel is gone. Well, maybe next time.

Next times come often and Azazel is the one pushing his luck. War may favor him, but the Horseman doesn’t pick sides. Lucifer thinks he should lay low, and he tries for a while. He gets bored easily.

Time goes by and Azazel witnesses Humanity rising to new heights. It’s fun to know he made it possible when he showed Cain how to craft first a tool to work the soil, then – a weapon to kill.

When Azazel sees Michael after who knows how long, he thinks 'Finally!' Gabriel failed to take him down, of course it's Michael's turn now. Azazel is excited. But Michael is unarmed, undefended. His grace is gentle as it brushes Azazel with warmth. The treacherous sense of longing and peace creeps in between his body’s ribs challenging his rebellious spirit.

"Brother!" exclaims the fallen. "What brought you here? Maybe, by any chance, you've changed your mind, hmm?"

Of course Michael didn't. However, Azazel has to remind Michael what he denies himself.

"I came to see you, Azazel," his quiet voice belongs here, in this cool night air.

See him, not fight.

"Oh, I'm touched. Honestly. I've already thought you came to deliver retribution for my sins," he practically spits the last word.

Michael shakes his head. His vessel creates an illusion of Azazel being bigger, stronger, but Azazel is too smart to allow himself to believe it.

"It won't be me," a mere whisper, no louder than shuffle of wind in his hair.

"No? Who then? Gabriel has failed. Camael or Zachariah, maybe Irin can be a challenge, but if the archangel had to retreat, well, brother..." he sneers.

Michael casts his eyes down, then looks at him again. And Azazel doesn't like what he sees in his brother's fathomless eyes. He knows none of the named will be his opponent, but then... Will Father himself smite him at the dawn? If not... And it struck him.

"Are you serious?" he asks with bitter chuckle. "Why? He doesn't fight." He shouldn't. Never.

"It's not my decision."

As if Azazel doesn't know it. Wrath burns his insides as he shouts:

"Of course it isn't! It never is yours!" there is no point in telling this to Michael, but Azazel mostly does it for himself. "Thing is, brother dearest, there is nothing that is yours! You have nothing!" he counts it as small victory when Michael winces and it calms him down a little. "And you know why? All because of this," Azazel comes too close, so close that Michael's grace pushes through him and he almost feels bad, like Michael does.

"All because of this," he repeats and taps his fingers on his brother's forehead. Azazel has no idea what exactly is going on there, in Michael's mind, but he made some conclusions. "It could be yours. All of it!" he shows around. "It could be if only you would take it. But I've noticed something, long-long ago," he makes a pause to take a breath he doesn't need. "You never ever take. You can touch, you can make, you can break, but you never claim anything as yours! Why?! Why can't you even take what is given to you freely?" Lucifer's love, their love, Heaven and Earth. It all could belong to Michael, and none of them would deny him this.

He doesn't need Michael to speak, Azazel is good at answering his own questions. He always has been.

He should challenge Michael now. They should fight, not talk. Isn’t it what brothers do? He can strike first. Michael won’t see it coming or just will let him. What then?

“I love you, Michael, but I wish you were smarter,” he says instead. And his honest bitter words reflect shortly with helpless hurt on Michael’s face.

“I wish I were.”

Soft agreement catches Azazel off guard. For a fleeting moment, he wants to say he’s sorry. But he smothers this senseless urge. None of them needs this. Guilt, pain, tears, what kind of a purpose it could have? And forgiveness? For what? Questions empty him and there is nothing more.

Michael is about to leave, Azazel hears light fluttering of white feathers behind his brother's back. This is goodbye, he knows it. Whatever happens tomorrow Azazel and Michael won't see each other ever again. One of them whispers:

"Goodbye, brother."

And Azazel is alone again and the dawn is eternity away. He laughs because of stupid realization, where he and Michael are alike. They never learn. It’s not what should be on his mind. But he’s inexplicably glad to know that should Michael fall or simply make a mistake, he’ll never repent.  

Heavy steps distract him from emptiness of his thoughts.

"Father," his children.

His ugly beautiful children. Azazel knew they were doomed the first time he held them in his arms. They were so tiny back then, now they are almost twice taller than average human. Love to a mortal woman created monsters, abominable, infertile, but strong and resilient like granite rock. 'Love'... Azazel did genuinely love her, though now he can't recall even her name. She was bleak in everything but one no doubt heavensent gift: her voice painted air itself around her into shapes and colors of the Creation, it captivated him and for a moment he could forget from what he was torn. And she loved him too, never worshipped mindlessly like all other tended to.

"I don't want you here," he tells the twins. He doesn't want to watch them die. Their life has no point, it's true. But only now he realizes he can lose them, and he doesn’t want that. They are stronger than his brothers' spawn, they survived longer than any other Nephilim. They... They made him feel like God. These two monsters. Not all those humans that bowed to him in awe and admiration. But they, whom he created. Loyalty beyond rational and yet not blind, devotion and unconditional faith. And all of this for Azazel and him alone.

They both stay ignoring his wish. His Father wouldn't tolerate such insolence. But he is not Him. He's a better father. Thinking about this he smiles to himself, because Lucifer... Lucifer is just like Him: he would treat his children just like they've been treated by Him. Instruments of divine will. But Azazel was there when his children cried in pain or laughed in joy. He never lied to them, no matter how cruel the truth was. And he doesn’t own them, but he and each other are all they’ve got.

Wind is gathering clouds above and sun doesn’t come here with the dawn. Air is charged with danger. Soon far away thunder will announce the arrival of his punisher.

"Didn't hope to see you again, brother," Azazel got used sounding mocking like this.

Raphael closes his eyes like he's in pain. Good. When he speaks his voice is quiet and shaky:

"You are not my brother anymore."

Azazel’s expected it. He heard it many times before, but now it cuts deeper than it usually does. How much easier it would be if Raphael truly meant that. Azazel pays back by introducing his children, he has never seen Raphael angrier, there is a storm about to break hiding behind his halo. Azazel gives him a chance to back out, saying he isn't cut out for this, but Raphael answers him with his stubborn 'we shall see'. But the archangel isn't ready to fight. Azazel doesn't think he ever hated Father more than at this moment, when he sees Raphael's inexperienced hold on his sword, his grace gathering around him into stone hard armor and yet all he could see in his elder beloved brother's eyes is resignation, not bravery, not resolve, but despair. Father left Raphael here alone and yet he doesn't question Him even now. Between two of them who really is the one who lost his reason?

Azazel would rather break his will to fight, but there is no such thing, so he means to end this with one quick stroke. He'd never make Raphael suffer. But he already has, hasn't he? It doesn't matter, because silvery blade is going through flesh on Raphael's side then under his ribs.

But archangel’s grace doesn't explode into million particles that only God can pull back together, no. Just for a second dark eyes shine with blue, but nothing more. Only blood flows freely from the wound. And then Azazel realizes that he missed. Raphael can control his grace better than any other angel, he knew exactly where Azazel would strike and just removed it from the spot. Azazel would be impressed if not the panic that started wrapping its cold hands around his throat. Raphael jumps away letting blood spray from his wound.

Azazel doesn’t give Raphael a break and attacks him with heavy blows. He still can prevail. Raphael is not a soldier, not a warrior. But he’s a quick learner and Azazel curses himself for forgetting it. Still, for now Azazel prevails, Nephilim don’t give the archangel a way to retreat, all he can do is hold his ground. Few cuts Raphael manages to deliver sting, while his own wounds bleed.

Finally, Raphael loses the weapon from particularly hard blow from Israfil. Azazel is there to put an end to it. Naked hands catch his wrist stopping the strike. They are strong and steady, just as Azazel remembers. Suddenly some alien unimaginable pain intrudes his bones with electric shock. Nothing like he’s used to, intense and really scary. It blinds him and he is thrown away by a mighty flap of a wing.

Moment of confusion passes quickly. Not enough.

Raphael’s smite is unforgiving. His boy falls with burnt out holes where his eyes has been. Azazel’s eyes. His girl screams when she gets caught into cage of lightening and divine hand rips the heart out of her chest. It’s not what kills her: she dies with a small sob just a moment later, when Raphael’s fingers touch her forehead.

They are dead. Somehow it seems so unfair and wrong. Azazel wonders if they have foreseen it, if they’ve known since they started seeing things and hearing voices.  

His eyes meet Raphael’s. They are empty. So are his, he thinks. He can’t lose now, he must survive this, Lucifer needs him, it’s all that matters. Lucifer probably won’t forgive him if he kills Raphael. He’ll have to understand, forgiveness be damned.  

Azazel approaches the passive figure and tilts his head, scrutinizing beloved features. They are the same, but Azazel’s sight twists them into something else, something just as beautiful, something that begs to be destroyed.

Raphael is unreally close and Azazel breaths him in like ether, chasing away dusty earthly air from his lungs. A faint taste of grace burns his tongue. Dares he? Dares he take it? Yes, all or nothing. He pushes his fingers into the wound he made and pulls at the strings of lightning and uncoils this tangle of heavenly fire inside. It’s too much. Raphael’s grace burns him with its impossible clarity. But Azazel can’t stop. He doesn’t even notice when dry lips touch his, barely registers the change in the flow of grace, but he cannot miss sharp pain in his wings.

Too late. Of course, his dirty trick couldn’t work on Raphael. Stupid how he really believed he’d win. He, who would have never underestimated Raphael before. Pride is truly blinding. Too bad he won’t be able to share experience with Lucifer.

He can’t get away from this cruel copy of a kiss. Raphael won’t let him go and he is helpless to resist. So that’s how it feels… not painful, not even close, the execution lacks anything clear to describe it. It feels like nothing.

Then… he’s empty. Not a drop of his tainted grace was left. Funny. Now he’s truly belongs to Raphael, as he once promised he did. The weight of his wings is gone. It’s scary. And yet they manage to hurt as if they are still there. No. It can’t be over. Not like this. It’s not fair.

“Is that all you have?” he tries taunting.

Raphael’s gaze goes down taking Azazel’s heart along. Feels like another falling. This time too slow, this time indefinite. How hard will he hit the ground now?

“Yes, that is all I have,” the reply is detached. He doesn’t have to say anything else. After all, there is only one Word, only one Will, and it doesn’t belong to them.

Azazel has grown unaccustomed to this language of nor words, nor gestures, where silence speaks louder than anything. It’s hard to understand what is happening. But sharp shards dig into his palm and all Azazel can think of is that the world has just fallen apart, shattered right underneath him. And the space finally appearing between clouds looks like a wound and ray of sunlight – a streak of warm blood.

“Have mercy.”

Strange. He didn’t mean to say that. He realizes, he did when Raphael snaps his head up and stares, finally being able to see. His eyes are wonderfully serene. No more lightning. No more fire. Azazel laughs and laughter comes out as violent cough.

“Mercy, Raphael. I’m sure I don’t have to explain you what it is,” he jokes. He jokes and rolls his eyes to not burst in tears.

This is the end. It came too soon. And suddenly Azazel can’t be brave enough. At this moment he wishes Raphael wasn’t here. But at the same time he is grateful, because if not for him, he would pray Father. It hurts so bad, that no pride would stop him. Human heart beats stubbornly in its final revelations, washing itself in angelic blood over and over. So many empty, needless revelations.

His strength if fading away, muscles squeeze bones like tight rough ropes. He doesn’t find it that difficult now. He goes up to his knees with no shame, because God’s eyes are averted, Azazel knows for sure he isn’t watching. But even if he did, Azazel kneels for Raphael, even Lucifer wouldn’t be ashamed to do so. Lucifer… Azazel can barely recall what he looks like, what he feels like. Even his memory slips away.

It’s only sand beneath him. The desert has already swallowed his children’s bodies and his burnt wings. They scorched the earth, drained all its juices, leaving only death. Death. It’s his only salvation now.

Raphael is confused. Scared. Like a child. Azazel wants to embrace him. Wants to tell him he’s done well. Tell him it’s going to be fine. But he is not his father.

"I'm sorry, Raphael, I’m so sorry… I lied to you. I betrayed you. But… just please... please finish me. I’m begging you..." he barely hears himself, his voice can’t break through his petrifying shell.

"It's not me you should ask for forgiveness," Raphael's mouth is set into a line and his eyes are unreadable before he trails his hand down Azazel's face with cruel weeping gentleness he doesn't deserve.

He closes his eyes, leans into the touch, no matter how much it pains him, and confesses.

“Only yours matters,” he whispers. This is the only way he can tell it. He wishes to take these words and throw them Father in the face. He wishes they would make Him hurt. But enough, Azazel doesn’t want to make his last thoughts about Him.

Raphael stands frozen among this dry sizzling heat. Strangely clear sky lies heavily on his shoulders like a giant boulder. Well, this stone is his burden now. Azazel won’t carry it again. He can’t even bear a weight of Raphael’s gaze, impossibly light almost like before… Time goes, passing through them, leaving only new layers of sand that have now covered their feet.

The gentle hand trails down his face, his daughter’s blood still warm on those fingers.

“Raphael…” he starts, but falls silent as Raphael shakes his head denying him another word.

This is it. This private judgment is coming to an end. And the sentence is brutal.

"I forgive you," words strike with lightening, but Azazel can't say for sure from what his nerves are burning more.

Suddenly he can't see anything. Is he falling again? Or is it Earth falling on him? Only thing is sure – he isn’t dead. The darkness is thick. He wants to scream, but his mouth is filled with earth mixed with his own blood. And there is pain. So much pain...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. But I'll probably finish Lilith story first. Or not. We'll see.


End file.
